


BYOB(f)

by odoridango



Series: Waiter!AU [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anniversary, Established Relationship, M/M, Waiter!Eren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odoridango/pseuds/odoridango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. A dinner date with the waiter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BYOB(f)

**Author's Note:**

> Because fridaynightxylene drew another waiter pic: http://fridaynightxylene.tumblr.com/post/67563766316/dinner-date-with-the-waiter

winendine – BYOB(f)

Jean has long known that being a student is suffering, but it’s never been more apparent to him in this moment.

Groaning, he tosses himself onto the sofa face first, burying his nose in the cushion Sasha and Connie gave them as a housewarming present, a large, fluffy monstrosity shaped like a hamburger, floppy bits of lettuce included. He’s just turned in the term paper he’s slaved over for the last couple months, the term paper he’s just sacrificed his one year anniversary for. The red numbers of the digital clock blink at him morosely from their position atop the television. 10:30 PM, and Eren is late in coming home from work.

“Stupid,” Jean mutters, more to himself than to Eren, squeezes that dumb hamburger to his chest. He’s not expecting anything, really—the calendar that hangs haphazardly on the fridge leaves the day unmarked, not even a red circle to signify its importance. They’ve never discussed it either, things like anniversaries. Actually, they just don’t talk about _things_ on a whole, because they _do_. Eren invests his affection in the way he curls his lips and lifts the corners of his mouth around the word _bastard_ , and Jean puts his love in the small moments where they sit side by side, their pinkies touching. He opens his mouth and says _asshole_ ; their fingers twine and say _lover._

There’s a box in his desk drawer, and it’s got a ring in it. A jade one, a bright green that matches the shade of Eren’s eyes, a dark, verdant line striking through the middle of the band. He’d barely been able to afford it, but he thinks of it now, imagines giving to Eren, putting it over his head on a chain, sliding it on his finger, buries his face in the cushion for the squirmy feeling of his gut when he thinks of Eren’s smile, thinks of Eren walking around with Jean’s ring bouncing against his breast, or with Jean’s ring on his finger.

One year anniversary, unspoken and unmentioned, and Jean had told Eren that there would be no Thursday night date this week, because he had to get this paper in, this paper due at eight tonight.

“I know,” Eren had huffed at him, exasperated, and for a moment Jean thought he had remembered after all, Eren who was at times so forgetful he wouldn’t remember Mikasa’s birthday unless he marked it on the calendar, who was at times so sharp he would remember the exact time he met someone, and what they had been saying at the time. Classic Eren. “You’ve only been talking about this paper for the past four months,” he had teased with a wry grin, poking Jean in the chest roughly. He pressed a warm, dry peck to Jean’s brow, pat his boyfriend’s belly absentmindedly. “Don’t worry about it, bastard. There are other Thursdays. Actually, I think I’ll head over to the bistro, they said they might be short on help today.”

Off Eren went, and now Jean is flopped on the sofa like a dead fish _pining_ after him, two hours after he finished his paper, an hour after Eren is supposed to come home.

His phone goes off with a short beep.

 _Come to the bistro_ , Eren’s text reads.

 _It’s ten at night you twit you should be coming home_ , Jean texts back furiously, and he refuses to think about how badly he must be pouting right now.

 _Come to the bistro **please**_ **,** Eren texts back because he’s an ass and because Jean must have been drunk the night he decided to fall for this massive failure of a human being.

10:32 PM. It’s still their anniversary.

On impulse, he takes the ring with him, slips it out of the box and into a pocket, the stone cold under his fingers. _Fine but you owe me_ ,he types as he locks the door behind him, goes jogging off into the night to figure out what the hell his boyfriend is up to. He doesn’t think this is what anniversaries are supposed to be like.

The bistro is dark and silent when he gets there, devoid of any customers and staff. Even though the bistro closed an hour ago, there should at least be some lingering customers, or some staff who are helping tidy up at the end of the day. He tries the bistro door, and it swings open easily. Small fairy lights are strung up on the ceilings, and Eren sits where the host or hostess would, hunched over with his elbows propped on the podium. When he sees Jean he smiles, slow and sweet.

“Hello, sir,” he murmurs. “How many?”

Jean blinks dumbly. Eren’s the only one here. No one else is on the floor. The fairy lights aren’t even part of the usual décor. What’s going on here?

Understanding dawns. “…two,” Jean says breathlessly, because it’s clear now that Eren knows exactly what day it is.

And this stupid, stupid boy grins at him, pleased. He slips off the stool, reaches into the shelf built in the podium to tug out a bottle of wine, which he places gently in Jean’s hand. “You’re our last customer of the day,” he explains, smirking, “which means you get your wine free.”

“Lucky me,” Jean says, as Eren steps in close, serving towel slung over his arm, apron still tied about his waist.

“Lucky you,” Eren breathes, leaning up and pressing his lips to Jean’s cheek, lacing his fingers with Jean’s free hand. Lightly, he tugs Jean toward the back of the bistro. The way is lit by strings of light, and Jean swallows the lump that rises in his throat when he sees the outdoor dining space, the majority of chairs and tables cleared to reveal the country style cobblestone beneath, lit entirely by lanterns and candles of all shapes and sizes, a warm, flickering constellation dragged down to earth. At the center is a two-person table, draped in a pristine white tablecloth, a bouquet of sunflowers resting on one of the seats.

“Ah.” Eren releases Jean’s hand to take the flowers, and Jean feels stupid and bereft until Eren turns around to face him. In the light of all these candles, he’s stunning, the comforting reds and oranges sinking into the sun of his tan, highlighting the green of his eyes, and revealing the soft, but bedraggled nature of his hair. “Someone told me you like these,” he says with a reckless grin, and the playfulness there is reminiscent of their Wednesday afternoon games, the weekend mornings where they wake early and go in for a round, languid, soft, and pliant, laughing and giggling and playfighting a little too much for there to be any real heat.

Jean’s never going to be able to say that Eren isn’t romantic again.

Eren plays host and waiter, popping the cork and pouring the wine out into the glasses with a particular sort of panache which speaks of how long he’s held his job, makes trips to and fro the kitchen, emerging with the bread basket, with appetizers, with a salad. He’s gone all out—it’s a full on four course meal, as far as you can get from the bistro fare, which consists of one plate entrees that tip just the slightest bit into fine dining.

“How did you get all this together?” Jean asks as he takes another spoonful of the soup, a delicate, refreshing consommé inflected with hints of cilantro and scallion, a good match to the thin, flavorful shavings of preserved ham that had topped their salad. The cooking style, too, is different from the bistro’s, starting with light and fresh flavors and sinking into heavier, more complex aromas.

“What can I say, Ness likes me,” Eren says with a loose shrug. “I’ve been working here for a long time, since high school, and he started pushing me into kitchen work two years ago, said it would make the orders faster. We were planning to close early anyway, since there’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight, so I asked Pixis if he was okay with me taking over for an hour or two.” He grins at Jean, and Jean can’t help but marvel at the slight dimple in his right cheek. “Good employer-employee relations,” he fairly sings, “they’ll get you far.”

It isn’t until Jean’s taken his first bite of braised pork belly that he realizes what Eren really meant. Throughout the night, Eren’s apron has become increasingly dirty, and little bits of plant, which look suspiciously like the garnish used for the soup and entrée, cling to the webs of his fingers. A pattern of reddish sauce is splattered across the bottom of his shirt. Jean’s next mouthful of pork is a little more careful, and he lets the taste of it sink into his tongue—a little sweet, but moist and tender, the layers of fat adding an easy richness.

“You made me dinner,” he says, eyes big as dinner plates. It tastes really fucking good.

“I did,” Eren replies, sucks on the tines of his fork in a manner that’s probably illegal in some corner of the world. He looks at Jean briefly before turning away, the barest hint of red splash on his cheeks. “Is it okay?”

A shy Eren is a cute Eren, Jean notes absently. Man, he’s learning so many new things today. “It’s great,” he says, and if he’s a little breathless, who can blame him? He wants to drop little kisses all over Eren’s dumb face, this silly college boy who remembers anniversaries and cooks him overly elaborate dinners and _tries_ , god, Eren always tries, with gung-ho conviction and enthusiasm that just won’t quit.

Jean actually wants to cry when Eren sets dessert out in front of him he’s so full, but he takes a bite of it anyway, so Eren knows that he’s not rejecting the food. Almond sabayon, with the slight alcoholic punch of amaretto, garnished with raspberries. Damn.

“Eren,” he says, and when his boy turns, he cups his cheek and draws him close, draws him into a kiss across the table, gentle and soft. One, two, three kisses, pressed at the corners of Eren’s mouth, and when he laughs, Jean takes the opportunity to own that sound for himself, delves into the warmth of lips, tongue, and teeth. He tastes like dessert, the sweetness of liqueur and sour tartness of raspberry, and Jean can’t get enough of it, licks the flavor out of that addicting mouth as he reaches into his pants pocket. He finds Eren’s hand where it cups the back of his neck urgently, massages the palm as Eren moans into the kiss and turns his head just so to make it filthy, wet and hot. Cupping Eren’s hand in both of his, Jean can feel Eren’s hand twitch when the jade ring settles against his skin, just this side of cold.

They slowly disengage from the kiss, chests heaving as they part, and Jean lifts Eren’s hand so he can get a good look at his gift. Stunned, Eren’s bruised mouth drops open a little. He searches Jean’s face disbelievingly, eyes wide, pink blooming all across his face, to the tips of his ears, down his neck. Jean just laughs and kisses Eren’s knuckles, like a real gentleman.

“I really like you, you little shit,” he whispers in the shell of an ear, and Eren rockets out of his seat to come around and envelope Jean in a hug.

“You fucking dork, you got me a _ring_ ,” Eren grabbing Jean’s face in his hands and smooshing his cheeks. His eyes are bright, lips in a wobbly line. “ _A ring_.”

“Well, if you like it, then you gotta put a ring on it,” Jean sings mockingly, hisses when Eren kicks him in the shin. “Ow! Ugh, I take it back, I take it back, you’re a little hellion.”

“Charming bastard,” Eren mumbles, reaches into his shirt to grab the black leather cord that always rests around his neck, lifts it over his head and settles it around Jean’s. The rusty bronze key comes to rest on Jean’s chest, solid and heavy, and he examines it reverently, heat warming his body.

“I’ll share it with you,” Eren says stubbornly, “Mom’s heirloom. I’m giving you a lease.” He yanks Jean toward him by the shirt, staring defiantly into his eyes. “You have to give it back to me next year, on this same day. Promise?”

Next year, same day. Two year anniversary.

“I promise,” Jean says, belly full of food and love, and they’ve got a head start because a star falls, then and there. In seconds, millions and millions of streaks of light paint the sky, and beside him, Eren laughs and laughs, presses tight and close, holds his hand under their own private technicolor lights show.

“Make a wish,” Jean murmurs, draping his other hand over Eren’s shoulder and drawing him closer.

They sway gently, side to side, slow dancing without music.

Eren tilts his head up and smiles small, smiles sincere, squeezing Jean’s hand. He drops a kiss on Jean’s jaw. “I don’t think I need to,” he murmurs contently.

 


End file.
